


Hardwood

by the_rat_wins



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alive Allison, Breathplay, Consentacles, Magic, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Other, Self-Lubrication, Sex Magic, Tentacle Sex, Tentacles, Tree Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-23
Updated: 2014-06-23
Packaged: 2018-02-05 20:16:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1830934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_rat_wins/pseuds/the_rat_wins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A tiny green tendril curls softly around his wrist where it's resting against the wood. Stiles takes shallow breaths, trying not to move or get too excited, but—<em>it's working,</em> he thinks. <em>This is going to work</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	Hardwood

**Author's Note:**

> How many times can we come up with a scenario where Stiles and a semi-sentient tree stump must do the do? At least once more, Miss Swann, as always.

After six months of spending all their free time dealing with whatever fresh supernatural hell the Nemeton has dug up this week, Stiles, Scott, Allison, and Kira are collectively exhausted. Which is probably why none of them even look up from their lunches when Lydia slams a thick leather-bound book down on the table in front of them.

"I just got my physics midterm back," she says. "Would you like to know what I got on it?"

"An A?" says Stiles listlessly, running his fork through the gluey, reconstituted mashed potatoes on his tray.

"An 87," says Lydia, and when Stiles drags his gaze up to look at her face, he sees unbridled rage in her eyes. "I got a B, Stiles! Not on some cute little pop quiz. On my midterm! Is the severity of the situation beginning to sink into that tiny pea brain of yours?"

"Lydia," says Scott, and at the surprised and disappointed tone of his voice, she looks down for a second, and takes a deep breath.

"I'm sorry," she says. "It's just . . . frustrating."

"It's getting bad," Kira agrees glumly. "I zoned out during class yesterday and wrote about the economic situation in Germany during World War II instead of World War I for the essay section."

"I ruined an entire set of beakers in chemistry last week," offers Allison. "I didn't think we even had the right materials to make something that would melt glass, but—"

Stiles doesn't add his own academic sob story. Anyway, it's not one incident so much as a continuous downward spiral on all fronts. Even when they aren't out all night fighting harpies or ghouls or whatever the flavor of the week is, he spends hours aimlessly trawling the internet, trying to stay ahead of the next threat. 

And the nightmares are back. He knows it's not the Nogitsune screwing with his brain, not anymore, but his subconscious seems to have picked up a few tricks, and it's doing just fine on its own.

Lydia has a hand spread across the book on the table. "The thing is," she says slowly, "I think I might have figured out how to make it stop."

* * *

"You're saying the tree is _feral_?" Stiles always thinks nothing can surprise him anymore. He's always wrong.

Lydia looks around the table at all of them, and now her eyes are bright with excitement.

"That's a ridiculously anthropomorphized way to describe it, but essentially, yes. Originally, the Nemeton would have been a holy place, a center of positive energy. But when the tree was cut down, most of that energy wasn't lost. It was tainted."

Stiles and Scott share a weirded-out look, but Lydia ignores them. "All the things that happened afterward—Derek accidentally sacrificing Paige, the victims killed by the Darach—increased its power, but only made the taint on the energy worse."

"My mom hiding the"—Kira pauses, doesn't look at Stiles—"the Nogitsune in its roots for all those years probably didn't help, either."

"Definitely not," says Lydia. "The sacrifice that Scott, Stiles, and Allison did for their parents was what finally tipped the scale, but the Nemeton has been pretty much marinating in pain, death, and suffering for decades. So now it's lashing out, trying to inflict its own pain on others without any concern for the consequences. And so are the things it's attracting."

"But you said you think you have a way to make it stop, right?" says Scott. 

She hesitates. "Well, what I actually have is an _idea_."

The idea, it turns out, is a virgin sacrifice.

"Stiles, don't be ridiculous. I'm not the Darach. It's a combination of a cleansing ritual and a fertility ritual." Lydia is leafing through the book in front of her, and only sparing about 12 percent of her attention for his breakdown, which is probably 10 percent more than she would have given him six months ago, so, hey, that's something. "I know you understand the difference."

"It's still a _sacrifice of my virginity_ ," he hisses. "I don't get why no one else seems to think that's a problem."

"I don't know, dude," says Scott. "Maybe because you've been campaigning nonstop for someone to take your virginity for the past three years?" Stiles shoots him a look of betrayal, and Scott has to duck his head, trying to hide a smile.

"Not helping!" Stiles says. "Why would you think that would be helpful? There is a huge difference between wanting Danny to sensually devirginize me, and wanting"—he lowers his voice a little, because after all, they're still in the cafeteria—"and wanting to _get it on_ with a tree. An _evil tree_ , Scott! That's nobody's idea of a good first time!"

"Rule 36," says Kira, jotting something down on the notepad where she's making a list of things Stiles will need for the ritual. The list is getting long. Stiles finds that concerning.

"I—" He stops. "Touché."

"It's going to be okay, man," says Scott, and squeezes his shoulder. "We're all here for you. I mean, we won't be _there_. That would be weird. But you know." He thumps a fist against his chest. "In spirit."

"Do you remember what day of the week it was when you had your first wet dream, Stiles?" asks Lydia, businesslike. "I think it will be helpful if the ritual has as many personal connections to your own sexual experience as possible."

Stiles squints at her disbelievingly, then buries his head in his arms. "Is this a nightmare?" he asks. "I think I've had nightmares like this."

"So, that's a no?"

***

Stiles is standing at the edge of the Nemeton clearing, naked, holding a bundle of cloth, and feeling ridiculous. Which is actually not okay, because for this to work, he needs to believe in this ritual, completely and without the smallest reservation. He needs to know in his heart of hearts that he can cleanse the Nemeton of years of blood, death, and misery with the power his mind. And also his jizz.

"Okay," he says, and lets out a nervous breath. "Let's do this."

When he had gotten up the nerve to ask Morrell for advice on the ritual during their weekly session, she had made a big deal about him being "untainted." So, no clothes. No deodorant, no shampoo, no soap when he showered an hour ago. Just hot water.

He has the supplies for the first part of the ritual folded up in a piece of unbleached linen: four flowering stems of wolfsbane, four empty bullet casings, and a handful of sea salt. As the remaining representatives of their families, Derek and Allison have each contributed to the cause: the casings are smeared with a few drops of Allison's blood, the wolfsbane with Derek's.

"Do you really think this is going to work?" Allison had asked, watching impassively as her blood dripped onto the metal.

"Well, it couldn't make things any worse, could it?" Stiles had replied cheerfully, avoiding the question.

Allison had smiled. "Let's not push our luck, okay?"

Derek had been blunter.

"What do you think a few drops of our blood are going to matter when that thing has had gallons already?" he asked. "You have a spark, Stiles, but this forest, the power of that place—it's beyond anything you're capable of."

"Well, thanks as always for the vote of confidence," Stiles snapped. "And hey, you of all people should know not to underestimate me and my mojo. You were there, outside Jungle. You saw what I can do, all right. So, a little positivity, please."

Derek's gaze was fixed on his face, but Stiles didn't look up at him.

"I just don't want you getting into something you can't handle," Derek said.

"Oh, I can handle it, all right," Stiles replied, laughing a little. "If there's one thing I've been practicing for my whole life . . ." That broke the mood. Derek had rolled his eyes, and reluctantly pricked his finger for the blood offering.

Now, keeping the stump of the Nemeton in the corner of his eye the whole time, Stiles walks a slow circle around it, leaving a thin, unbroken trail of the sea salt behind him.

The best thing about this ritual is that it makes good solid symbolic sense to him, so it's that much easier to believe in. Salt to cleanse, to kill infection, to repel evil. Salt from the sea, specifically, to wash away stains and bad influences. He feels like it's connected to tears, too—saltwater, to extinguish the burning hatred between the Argents and the Hales.

Allison and Derek's blood is connected to that idea; blood is saltwater as well, give or take some iron. And neither Allison nor Derek, he knows, has any space in their heart to hate the other anymore. They've both lost too much to the fight. Not to mention, blood given willingly is a totally difference sacrifice from blood taken by force—the only blood the Nemeton has had for years.

Stiles walks the final few steps to close the circle of salt. As the last crystals fall into place, he feels a surge of pressure in the air around him, a tightening of the forest's attention on him and what he's doing.

"Oooh-kay," he says. "I guess someone's awake here after all."

There's a rustle of leaves from the trees around him, a warm breeze that brushes over his bare shoulders, making goose bumps rise on his skin.

Slowly, he reaches into the folded cloth and brings out the blood-dotted wolfsbane. He begins the walk again, and drops one of the stems at each cardinal point on the circle, as near as he can judge from the afternoon sun.

Then the casings, one each laid next to the flowers. Allison's blood is dried in brownish-reddish smears on the dull metal.

With each item he places on the circle, Stiles can feel the air around him getting quieter and heavier. In the center, the stump feels more and more present, like it's watching him, waiting for his next move.

The cloth is empty now, no longer relevant to the ritual, so he throws it outside the circle at the east point, and then slowly turns and walks toward the Nemeton.

Stiles stops in front of it, then sinks down to his knees.

The tree's attention focuses on him abruptly, and he sways a little. It's like the Nemeton is trying to push him away. In a weird way, it makes him feel better about what he's doing; it's hard to not believe when the tree's influence is so tangible.

"Relax," he mutters to the presence around him. "I'm trying to help."

With his mind, Stiles reaches out to the salt circle, a smooth, solid line of protection all around him, with four bright points of power flaring up where the blood-metal-flower sacrifices are. His eyes drift shut as he focuses on the circle, feeling every molecule of the salt, the electrons moving within them, the vibration of the atoms of the casing metal, the dying cells in the flowers, the teeming potential energy of the strands of DNA within Derek and Allison's blood. In his mind, he conjures the ocean the salt was pulled from, and puts that energy into the circle as well, a cleansing surge that brightens the four points in his mind until they are glowing white-hot.

In his chest, below his rib cage, he can feel the spark inside him flare up. It sends blood rushing through his body, makes him want to shout—but he takes a deep breath instead, and keeps all that energy locked solidly inside as he slowly opens his eyes, and reaches out a steady hand to brush against the edge of the Nemeton.

As soon as his fingers touch wood, the circle of salt bursts into light and heat around him. The salt is burning in bright yellow flames, the flowers have been instantly reduced to ashes, and the metal is shining and melting and spreading out. Everything is melding together, forming one fiery ring around the tree stump, growing stronger and stronger—

Grasping again in his mind at the now-burning circle of salt, Stiles closes his eyes and reaches for the waves, the power of the sea. He feels it gathering inside him, and just when it seems like it will spill over, he pushes it outward, and it rushes around the circle, extinguishing the flames instantly with a loud _hiss_ and clouds of steam that dissipate quickly, leaving behind a dark ring of wet ashes, and a clean, salty smell.

The clearing is silent again. Stiles takes a deep breath, then another. He cautiously cracks one eye open, and looks around. Everything is quiet.

His left hand is still resting gently against the wood of the Nemeton, which is now practically pulsing with life and interest—a neutral energy at the moment, which is better than the dark, brooding presence he remembers from the night of their first sacrifice. But not good enough.

A light cloud of clean, salty vapor from the burnt sacrifice is lingering in the air around them. He reaches out with his mind, and pulls the tiny droplets down onto himself and the stump, letting it settle over them equally. _You see?_ he thinks at it, in feelings rather than words, since he knows those won't mean anything. _We're here together, you and me. Nothing bad here. Nothing dark. Everything inside the circle is clean._

A tiny green tendril curls softly around his wrist where it's resting against the wood. Stiles takes shallow breaths, trying not to move or get too excited, but— _it's working,_ he thinks. _This is going to work_.

Slowly, carefully, he reaches down with his other hand and wraps it around his cock, half hard from the power and energy of the ritual rushing through him. His mind is clearer and calmer than he's used to, and his body is oddly content to be still, as if the power burned up all his excess nervous energy, and left him in this perfectly relaxed, balanced state.

As he squeezes himself with one hand, Stiles's other fingers convulsively press down against the Nemeton, and in answer, he can feel the little green vine tighten around his wrist. "Good," he breathes, and starts to work himself harder.

The tendril begins to slowly coil its way up his forearm. It feels—firm, a little waxy, and barely warm. Not a human touch, but definitely alive, and with the intense focus he can feel the tree still directing at him, it's clearly aware that _something_ is happening.

Wetness is starting to gather at the tip of his cock, and he looks down to see a drop of precome well up and then fall onto the soil.

Delicate roots creep out of the earth below him and begin to spread over his feet and ankles, inching up his calves. They're thin enough that he could break their hold, but he doesn't want to, likes the feeling of something pressing against his skin, holding him in place.

As if responding to his thought, thicker roots push out of the dirt and start to slide around his ankles, circling them once, twice, then pinning them to the ground. Stiles lets out a sigh and leans forward, sliding his coiled arm more fully onto the stump, and leaning his torso against it, too. The shift makes him tug a little against the roots, but they just grip his legs more firmly.

"Yeah," he whispers, and then rests his whole weight on the Nemeton, relaxing into it, feeling the wood under his body pulsing with energy and power.

More thin green tendrils are starting to work their way out of the stump and slide over his skin. One is curling around his right arm, tugging it gently away from his cock. He ignores it at first, but the pull grows more insistent, wrapping firmly around his wrist and hand, pulling his fingers off as other thin tendrils take their place, coiling themselves over and around the shaft of his cock and the soft weight of his balls, rubbing lightly over the thin skin in between.

Stiles grips the vine that's now coiled tightly around his fingers, and can feel the warm pulse of energy running through it. It grips him back, harder, and he moans.

A thin, smooth branch slides under his stomach, while several more slither their way under his thighs and knees. He can feel the heavy, thick roots around his ankles wrapping around them more firmly, then pushing up against him.

Slowly, gently, the tree lifts his lower body into the air, his weight pressing him into the cradle of supporting branches. Thin tendrils are stroking the delicate skin on the backs of his knees and his inner thighs, curling around his feet, tracing intricate patterns against his hip bones.

Stiles lets out a shuddering breath. The feeling of being surrounded and constrained is absolute.

"Yes," he murmurs, and the wind whispers through the leaves. The vines tighten around his cock and balls, then release, and he cries out. He can feel another bead of precome well up, and then drip onto the ground below him. He imagines it soaking in, feeding the Nemeton's searching roots.

A branch under his hips pushes him higher, encouraging him to raise his ass up, while the roots gently tug his ankles in opposite directions. Stiles sighs as his cheeks part a little, warm air brushing against the partially exposed skin of his hole.

For a moment, he hangs there, body cradled in midair, arms still bound and resting against the stump in front of him. Nothing moves, but the presence in the clearing seems to intensify, a tangible pressure all around him.

A tiny tendril pushes between his legs, and curls against the soft pucker of his asshole, nestling in a little spiral where he's clenched tightly.

Stiles is so focused on that soft spot of pressure, he almost misses the tentative brush of awareness against his mind. It feels small and new, like the shoots of new growth that are tracing and rubbing against his skin.

He stills his mind the best he can, and waits until the awareness reaches out again, a little more confidently this time. Then, slowly, he lets an image form, the same way he had done with the ocean during the cleansing ritual.

_Soil, damp and open and welcoming. Ready for roots, for plants, for growing things._

The Nemeton's presence in his mind seems to waver, uncertain. Quickly, Stiles lets the image fade away, leaving his mind blank and quiet. He waits.

Then, a new set of images begins to form, not from him, growing stronger and clearer by the second. _Water, trickling, dripping off branches. Dewdrops. Smooth, slick petals heavy with condensation. The juicy insides of leaves and stems._

Stiles gasps as his hole clenches suddenly, and then releases a little hot pulse of fluid. "Oh my god," he whispers.

There is an excited rustle of leaves from above, and more thin tendrils come up to brush at his now-damp entrance. The one in the middle uncurls, and begins to move in tiny, teasing circles. Stiles's breath stutters out of him, and he gasps as two bigger branches slide warmly down his spine, then reach lower and spread his ass cheeks wide open.

He moans at the sudden exposure, and his hole spasms out another warm trickle. He can smell it, similar to the salty scent of his come, but richer, more intense.

The little tendrils pull gently at the soaked folds of skin around his hole, tugging him open a little. He welcomes the stretch, pushing back against them, hungry for a firmer touch, something pushing its way into him . . .

In answer, the middle tendril circles one more time, then slowly begins to press inside.

Stiles can feel his swollen flesh parting around the insistent vine, and he cries out, gripping frantically at the tendrils around his hands. His cock jerks as the tree squeezes and tugs, milking him for more reluctant drops of precome.

His mind is filling with a flood of images and sensations from the Nemeton, even as more tendrils begin to follow the first one, wriggling their way into his wet, spasming hole. It's everywhere, surrounding his body, tugging on every limb, urging his ass higher into the air, circling a strong vine around his throat and beginning to tighten, his breath coming in shorter and shorter gasps. Overwhelming his mind with images of frenzied growth, plants sprouting and growing and spreading and flowering in an orgy of scents and pollen and dripping sap.

"Please," he chokes out, blood pounding in his head. "Please please please—AH!"

His lower body, cradled midair by the branches, is suddenly pushed higher, until he is almost upside down, his bound arms still pressed against the stump of the Nemeton, his legs bent and held open above him as the tendrils continue to thrust in and out through his gushing slick.

The vine around his neck is tightening and releasing rhythmically, in time with the tendrils pulsing around his cock, but he's slowly running out of air, each gasp a little shorter than the one before it. Lights flare around the edges of his eyesight, and he closes his eyes, turning his mind inward, where the Nemeton's vision of wild growth is coalescing into one image: a huge, thick oak tree, branches exploding across an electric blue sky, leaves glowing with green fire, roots spreading through rich black earth, digging deep.

And down on the ground, a naked human figure curled up, still impaled on the Nemeton, arms and legs bound, body twitching with aftershocks.

He can see his own face, his mouth sagging open, his eyes half-lidded and dazed. A drop of his jizz slides down his cheek and onto his upper lip. As he watches, he can see his wet pink tongue slip out and lap it up, and then his face, already stupid with pleasure, stretches into a mindless smile.

Stiles screams, arching and straining against the Nemeton's grip as his whole body comes, his cock throbbing out pulse after pulse, his dripping hole tight and hot around the tendrils writhing inside him, the heartbeat in his head and groin pounding out of control.

The Nemeton tightens around his throat, and he chokes. The last thing he feels is a hot drop of come splattering against his cheek.

* * *

When Stiles opens his eyes, he sees stars. Actual stars, bright and sharp in a clear night sky crisscrossed by branches. Shit, what's happening? Has he started sleepwalking again? Why is he lying on the ground? Why is he _naked_?

He turns his head, the muscles in his neck protesting, and sees something white on the ground, a few feet away. A piece of cloth. _Unbleached linen_ , his brain supplies, and he sits bolt upright.

Or tries to. His body is weak and wobbly, and he drops right back down onto the ground.

"Shit," he says out loud. "Shit. Did it work?"

He manages to reach back with one shaking hand, and his fingers brush against the trunk of the Nemeton. It pulses warmly under his touch.

Wait.

The trunk?

He tips his head back as far as it can go, his neck now screaming with pain.

"Holy shit," he says quietly. "Is that an oak tree, or are you just happy to see me?"

The wind through the leaves sounds almost like a laugh.


End file.
